


a bird does not give up flying because it failed

by blastellanos



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M, i don't know what this is, that's all this is, there's no redeeming value, this is a lousy excuse for porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 11:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10853514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/pseuds/blastellanos
Summary: Alex doesn’t hate the days, really, where part of his job as catcher is to play psychologist.





	a bird does not give up flying because it failed

Alex eats sunflower seeds by the handful and spits the shells out on the ground, close enough to Aníbal in the dugout that their knees are touching. He’s waiting for his at bat, if it comes up, and he scratches his beard with an almost idle gesture, trying not to be too obvious that he wants to reach out to his friend. Aníbal is quiet-- serious-- dark lashes low almost against his cheekbones, and mouth disappearing as he presses it into a line. 

Alex doesn’t hate the days, really, where part of his job as catcher is to play psychologist. 

They lose and it’s everyone’s fault but he’s been around enough to know that people are going to talk. James doesn’t look at Aníbal when they’re in the dugout and Alex wonders what face he might be making beneath the cage of the mask.

Does he sneer under his mask, angry at the failure? Alex doesn’t particularly like James (as one would, when one stole a job you thought was yours) and he thinks he has the type of face that’s constantly sneering. At the end, Alex claps a heavy hand on Aníbal’s shoulder and squeezes just for a moment. 

He wants to say something, but ultimately, does not. 

He wishes, in the aftermath, he did-- as Aníbal’s eyes are shining on camera, and the thickness in his voice makes Alex think he might be about to cry. 

On the plane to Florida, he sees Aníbal there, sitting alone with white earbuds and his head bowed, hands clasped lightly. 

An unfamiliar site-- of course, Alex knows that Aníbal’s one of the more personable members of the team. An effusiveness that doesn’t quit. With his flashy smile and big trusting eyes it’s difficult not to be drawn in by his magnetism. 

Alex sits by him though and rubs his hand over Aníbal’s knuckles with a gentle sort of touch and watches as his lashes flutter, the small smile on the edge of his lips, and Alex feels this little catch somewhere in his ribs that’s almost uncomfortable. 

Almost. 

Aníbal tilts his head to the side and for a moment, their gaze meets in the peripheral and Alex’s nails dig slightly against Aníbal’s knuckles. There’s a brief spark of something like electricity, like touching the hot end of a livewire. Alex has to turn away, his throat going dry. 

In the hotel, he measures his steps. Tries to carry a conversation with Shane Greene about -- he forgets what Shane’s even babbling on about, something about water, or fishing, and he’s saved when Alex Wilson busts in to tell his own story about it. 

Which is good, because Alex can’t focus, he feels eyes on the back of his neck and he feels his skin itch and everywhere, making him stir crazy. Making him feel like maybe he was going to need to crawl up the wall to deal with it. 

He’s swiping his keycard to get into his room and he feels the press of Aníbal’s body right against his. He knows it shouldn’t be this easy, or this good, or this anything but here it is, and if everyone sees he wouldn’t even care. He couldn’t even care. 

There’s a certain part of him that’s desperate with the need to calm Aníbal down. To show him that what he needs is just to relax. Part of him that wants to be part battery-mate and part psychologist and just sit with him, press his fingers against his soft skin and bring him back to himself. 

He doesn’t do that, though. This isn’t a matter of catcher-and-pitcher, it’s just a matter of one friend helping another. He doesn’t have to lay down signs, he doesn’t need to guide Aníbal, because he watches the other man throw himself into the overstuffed chair and wait. 

Aníbal looks like he’s still a little twitchy from the game. There’s still tension in his body, still the nervous little flitter of anxious energy moving in and out of him. Alex itches to do something, anything, tries to fall back on what he might have said the year before, guiding Aníbal. But it’s different when they’re not on the mound, when there’s not tens of thousands of people scrutinizing them. When he doesn’t have his armor on. 

It’s not that Alex has some knight complex just-- here-- privately-- it’s different. 

They should talk. They should talk like Alex would behind his glove, encouraging but bluntly, about pitch location, about facing batters, about-- shit, it doesn’t even matter right now. Alex’s words all get caught in his throat anyways and he paces the hotel room back and forth a few more times before he settles himself in front of Aníbal. 

He stands there for a moment and then slowly slides down to his knees. Aníbal’s staring at him with wide chocolate colored eyes and Alex hesitates for a half a second before he reaches up and his fingers undo the silver belt buckle around Aníbal’s waist. 

There’s nothing but the sound of Aníbal’s heavy breathing and Alex isn’t sure if the thudding of his heart is just in his own ears or loud enough for everyone to hear. He doesn’t bother with any kind of flowery sentiment, or any kind of slow burn or any kind of teasing lead-up. It’s sort of obvious what’s going to happen, Aníbal’s only movement was to curve his palm at the back of Alex’s head. 

“It’ll help you relax,” Alex says. The only explanation offered and he just watches as Aníbal’s eyes slip closed, dark lashes almost brushing his cheekbones. Alex ducks his head in and opens his mouth and wraps it around the head of Aníbal’s cock.

It’s probably not the best way to manage the pitching staff and his dad would surely be very disappointed. But he focuses on the pain in his knees and the stretch of his jaw and the light weight of Aníbal’s hand against the back of his head, then down further to the back of his neck. 

Listens to the sound of his breathing getting more and more labored, quiet murmured Spanish, words he knows like  _ por favor, más, necesito _ . He doesn’t mind giving in. He doesn’t mind. He’d do it for any of the guys, if it’ll help. This might help. He keeps a hand on Aníbal’s thigh to balance himself and takes him deeper. Until Aníbal’s hips are moving, he can feel him butting against the top of his throat-- until his lips are numb, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to put his lips back together. 

It’s not a loud affair, the whole thing is quiet, almost swallowed up by the noise of the hotel radiator clicking on and blowing air to warm the room. Aníbal whispers his name when he finally comes and Alex swallows and hates it, but pulls back and wipes his mouth and lays his cheek against Aníbal’s thigh, trying to catch his breath. 

He heaves himself off of the floor and helps Aníbal up, watches as he fixes his pants and then stares at him. Aníbal presses light fingertips to Alex’s lips. 

“ _ Gracias honestamente _ ,” Aníbal’s voice is still a quiet whisper and he leaves and Alex knows that that’s okay. Because it wasn’t about anything but getting Aníbal to relax. He rubs at his jaw idly and sighs, flopping down into the hotel bed with a grunt.  He listens to the radiator click on then opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to work the tightness out.

They’ll be back at it tomorrow and then they’ll see. If it works, it works and if it doesn’t, they move on and try something else-- that’s the name of the game. The important part is that they get back at it. 


End file.
